Pirouette
by Feathers On A Flume
Summary: Maude, a ballet dancer from England, discovers a striking set piece backstage which she cannot recall ever having been used in a production before. Upon inspection, she finds herself in Middle-earth, where no-one speaks English, there are strange small folk who like to eat, and an evil overlord is plotting his return. Any OC pairing is uncertain. Rating may change.
1. Chapter 1

"I warned you about that mascara."

Maude Winters was sat in front of a broad, gem-stone adorned mirror with her hands clasped primly in her lap. In her reflection, she observed her left eye, which was indeed becoming increasingly red and irritated; the vessels had spattered toward the iris, giving her the slightest appearance of a woman dabbling in one of the lower-class narcotics, which was certainly not how she wished to be presented at a gala filled with prospective philanthropists from around Europe.

"Oh, no-one pays any mind to the expiry date," she proclaimed in her own defence, taking a moment to swat her hands about absently before returning them to her lap. "Least of all with make-up. I'd be a little more anxious about food ..."

"I should hope so!"

The other young woman fussing over her was Colette McKinnick, one of the leading dancers in their company, and one of the finest ballet dancers in the country. Maude had never found the heart to envy Colette, unlike many of the other dancers; a lack of malice which stemmed from the fact that Colette had been the only one to greet her with any sort of amiable intention upon her initial recruitment. Besides, she was far more experienced than Maude was, and never failed to offer a helping hand when it was needed.

And it was most certainly needed at that moment.

"I look ridiculous!" Maude exasperated, throwing her head back to sulk at the woman behind her.

"You look marvellous," said Colette matter-of-factly. "Your _eye_ looks ridiculous."

"Well, this eye is part of my face. There's not much I can do about that."

"Never fear, my love!" She grabbed her hand-bag from the dressing table and removed from it a small glass bottle. "This, my dear Maude, is the saviour of many sleepless nights: _eye drops_. They work wonders on red eyes ..."

Warily, Maude turned in her chair to eye the bottle, asking, "Do they work on the product of anything other than exhaustion?" And, when Colette nodded, "Are you _sure_?"

Colette waved her hand dismissively and opened the bottle, before taking hold of Maude's head and tilting it back for better access. Ordering the younger woman to hold still, she carefully poured a fraction of its contents in to her eye, prompting a blinking frenzy and a stream of quietly uttered swear words. Then Colette, feeling rather accomplished, sealed the cap firmly atop the bottle once more, and placed it back in her bag. Naturally, with her stinging eye, Maude was feeling less than accomplished, and took a moment to glare at her as she did so.

"A warning might have been nice."

"I said _eye drops_, didn't I? That would suggest some discomfort, I imagine."

Grumbling, Maude stood up and peered in the mirror once more. If the drops acted quickly, she would look presentable soon enough, and would hopefully pique the interest of the visiting directors; although, if she didn't, she was sure that at least one of the others would. They were a formidable company, with many impressive dancers, and in retrospect it seemed silly of her to worry about her bloodshot eye. Nonetheless, she wished that their artistic director, Kevin, hadn't been so ardent about impressions. Truthfully, nothing made Maude feel more inadequate than the pressure to do so.

"We'd better hurry," said Colette suddenly, ushering her friend out of the dressing room. "Let's go and get Kevin his _Swan Lake_ funds."

A successful production of _Swan Lake_ was an old dream of Kevin's, much to the dismay of many dancers in the company. As beautiful and prestigious as that particular show was, it was incredibly tedious and overdone. Maude was one such dancer who held this firm belief, and had once suggested that perhaps the company conduct their own show, but the notion saw her part in the following show significantly reduced. She hadn't made that mistake since.

However, whether it was for the occasion or simply down to a good mood, Kevin greeted both women with a grand smile and opening arms when they made their appearance in the gala hall. Although, it all became too clear what his intentions were when he immediately moved on to introduce Colette to Monsieur Moreau, a wealthy Frenchman known for his love of theatre and ballet, and the generous donations he often made to such factions as this one. Maude was pushed aside in an instant, and sombrely made her way over to the back of the hall, away from the mingling crowds.

As she watched them, she felt her heart sink. The social aspects of her job were tiring and unwelcome; there was never any proletariat company at the public events they held, and Maude couldn't wriggle her way into the elite. She quite felt like Billy Elliot, half of the time, though she well understood that his struggles were incomparable to her own. Nonetheless, she _had_ struggled, and had put up a wonderful fight, as Colette had once said. _You're a fine dancer, Maude, and I think the world deserves to see that_. But the world never would, she was sure.

Rather than wallowing in self-pity any longer, Maude exited the hall and headed toward the main stage. She liked to linger there often, and rifle through the various sets they had used in the past. Her particular favourite was _Don Quixote_, which they had performed biweekly for some time the previous year. It was the only show for which a critic had actually mentioned her name, and complimented her performance. Despite being humbled by it, she couldn't quite quash the great pleasure she took in her mother framing the article, and placing it on show in her parents' living room. Her family had always supported her, and her mother and grandmother did their best to come to every possible show available to them.

Maude was so lost in her own thoughts that she nearly missed an unfamiliar set piece adjacent to the costume department. It was a vast thing, not only a background but with hanging leaves and branches that were cold to the touch. She was surprised to see it there, away from where the other pieces were kept, and she couldn't remember when on earth they had used it. Eventually, she arrived at the conclusion that it was from before she had joined the company. Only, it appeared to be new, rather than over three years old; very new and very real.

The set seemed to run all the way along the corridor, and the detail truly was extraordinary. She tugged at the leaves and a few fell loose, tumbling with a surreal grace to the ground, as though there was a breeze to carry them there. And the ground was spectacular in itself; someone had gone to a lot of trouble scattering dirt and twigs thick enough to feel soft under the soles of her shoes. And the _smell_! Fresh pine and moist soil, with the faintest hint of flora. For there _were_ flowers, set aside the finely crafted bark of trees. The farther she walked, the more deeply she wanted to meet the artist who had created the set, and ask them for what purpose it had been designed. Perhaps it _was_ for _Swan Lake_, and Kevin was simply so sure that he could glean the money he needed for the production that he had already gone ahead and commissioned a designer. It did seem entirely plausible to her, that he would seek out this level of realism for that dream of his.

She wandered further, suddenly curious about just how long this set piece was, and already constructed! Surely, that could have waited? Was Kevin really so brazen that he would not only have the pieces composed individually, but to have them _assembled_? It seemed absurd. They would need to deconstruct everything to relocate them to the stage, anyway.

Clicking her tongue, Maude realised how cold it had become since she had ventured down the corridor. _You gladly pay for extravagant sets, yet you refuse to pay for decent heating_! Her internal scorn disappeared very quickly, however, when it dawned upon her.

She was neither down a corridor, nor even backstage. She was, well and truly, standing in a thicket.

Confused, she turned on her heel and began to retreat from whence she came, only to be met with more trees and shrubbery. She walked and walked until she was certain the distance had amounted to that she had crossed down the corridor, and a panic began to rise in her throat. Had there been a door? Had she simply walked out into a forest at the back of the building?

_Nonsense_, she scolded herself. _There aren't any forests in the centre of London, you stupid girl_. _This is probably someone's idea of a practical joke_. But Kevin would not have risked such an intense joke on a night as important as that one.

With a second flurry of panic, she ran through the trees, stray branches cutting at her arms whilst the dirt covered what was exposed of her toes. She only stopped when she arrived at an opening, and it became even more clear that she was no longer in London. _And unless I'm capable of travelling an immense number of miles in a matter of minutes, I can't say I'm in the north, either_. Ruby red shoes and the thought of there being no place like home had not been on her agenda, either. _No, definitely not the north, then. But still definitely not the south_.

Increasingly aware of how wet her feet were becoming, Maude directed a look of distaste toward the ground, wiggling her toes in the confines of her shoes and watching as they only became more dirty. She had only worn those shoes because Colette had gifted them to her for her birthday, and now she was feeling rather guilty about ruining them. They were terribly uncomfortable things, too; strappy little shoes with heels were not her personal choice in footwear, but notwithstanding she was a woman who spent most of her time in ballet shoes, so she was in no mind to complain about discomfort.

A voice sounded in the near-distance—a low, guttural voice that she had previously deserved only for poorly-acted horror films. And, when she looked up to seek its source, she saw that the man who had spoken had a face to belong in a horror film, too.

That was when she fled, with the man—or rather, not a man at all—in hot pursuit. She ditched the shoes, also, hobbling for several moments to take them off and cast them aside, because if there was one thing she had learned from horror films, it was that the idiot who runs in heels always gets killed.

Every huff of breath came at a great price of pain, the longer she ran; and Maude had the endurance of a _ballerina_. Yet the air was unfriendly here, and the ground even more so, and her legs had clearly registered that she had the day off. It was torturous and tumultuous, but under no circumstances was she going to stop running. _Rule number two of every horror film_, she affirmed in her mind.

It was only when a startled bellow of pain erupted behind her that she dared turn around to look at her pursuer. He was sprawled on the ground, blood pooling around his temple, from which an arrow was embedded. Had someone intended to save her? She was unsure as to whether or not she even wanted to find out, and continued running.

She arrived at a cliff-face, quite suddenly, and swayed upon the edge. Taking a stumble, she would have undoubtedly fallen, had an arm not snaked its way around her waist, and pulled her back onto the grass. But this did not quench her fear, and so she darted back to her feet and started off once more, only to lose her balance over the gnarled root of a tree. The arm did not halt her fall this time, and she dropped to the ground, her head striking against a large rock at the tree's base as a dark curtain veiled her eyes.

* * *

**Author's note: **Hello! This is my first fan-fiction on this site, and I'm not sure what people will make of it, but I would appreciate some feedback! I know that my writing isn't top-notch, and the whole stumbling into Middle-earth has been done so many times, so I apologise for the tedium, but I feel that everyone's story is different, and so they really shouldn't be discredited for sharing a similar premise.

One more thing: from here on out, English will be **bolded**, and Westron will be your typical speech. Elvish will be _italicised_, but it will actually _be_ Elvish (Elvish will be used sparsely, you see, and I don't fancy writing every conversation in true Westron because I find that language to be far more linguistically complex than Elvish)._  
_


	2. Chapter 2

"**English**"|"Westron" | _Thoughts _(_or emphasis, but that's a given_)

**Author's note**: Second chapter before New Year's so I can lie to myself that I've been productive.

* * *

Maude awoke in the early hours of the night, not too long after the sun had set but late enough that the crickets had begun to sing and the creatures of the day had retreated to home and habitat. She had been laid near a river, where the water lapped at the shore idly and rippled in the breeze, and the world all sounded melancholy without its shower of day. Once her senses had adjusted she heard another sound: a song from a low, soft voice and in a tongue she was unfamiliar with. She was sad to hear it end, as she sat herself upright, and the cloak which had been draped across her unconscious form fell to her lap.

A turn of her head told her that she had been resting on a bedroll, with a mound of fabric to serve as a pillow. Recollection struck her, and she reached for the abrasion on her head from its earlier contact with the rock; the blood had mostly congealed, but a dull ache remained. She was thankful for something to have cushioned the wound, and craned her neck once more to find the person responsible for her care.

The man approached her, and she was relieved to see that he _was_ a man, this time. When he took hold of her chin, she flinched, though he was gentle with her; in a moment she understood that he was inspecting her wound.

"You slept for a full day," said the man. "I was becoming worried that you would not awaken."

Maude stared at him quizzically, unable to determine what language he was using. "**I'm sorry**?"

_He_ stared, then, with a frown to indicate his confusion. He gathered from her tone that she had asked a question, but the words were neither Westron, Sindarin, Quenya, nor Rohirric. Instead of speaking again, he reached for a piece of linen from beside the bedroll, and began dabbing it to her forehead.

"**Hold on just a moment**," she said quickly, leaning away from him with a sheepish laugh. "**I ... need ... to find ... the way back**." With every possible word she gave an action to communicate her wishes, but the man continued to observe her with a puzzled expression.

"I can identify every language there is here in Middle-earth," he told her, "and yet yours I cannot place. I do not understand what you are asking of me." He pointed at the trees in the distance. "Are you trying to explain to me why you were in the woods? Have you forgotten something?"

A strangled noise escaped her, and she touched her fingers to her forehead once more, only for him to take hold of her hand and set it back down in her lap. "**What**?"

"Do not agitate the wound," he insisted, this time understanding her question.

Sullen, Maude surveyed the area, until a shiver racked her body and she grabbed the cloak to wrap around herself, of which her male companion seemed to approve. He took hold of the edges of the fabric and tightened it around her, giving a firm nod of his head. She had no way of knowing that this was both his way of keeping her warm _and_ covering her up; she was indecently dressed for a woman of Middle-earth, and he could only assume that she was some sort of lady of the night. Although, what a lady of the night would be doing being chased by _orcs_ he could not fathom.

He returned to a pile of firewood several yards away, and set it alight, sending a crackle of heat Maude's way. When he looked at her next, she was smiling, and he smiled in return. "Strider," he said, gesturing to himself.

"Strider," she repeated, before pointing to herself and saying, "**Maude**."

He nodded at the introduction, before setting about to cook a raw rabbit that Maude had not noticed earlier. When she did see it, a feeling of dread washed over her. How could she explain to him that she didn't eat meat? _Was_ there even anything else for her to eat? She joined him by the fire in hope of communicating her eating habits.

"**I don't eat animals**," she said, wondering in which way to physically tell him this. She ended up using a series of wild gestures she was certain no-one would understand, and gave up. It would be rude of her to refuse food when he was going through this much trouble, after all. "**Do you always eat rabbit**?" she asked, not expecting an answer. And of course she didn't get one.

As she grew comfortable around the fire, she saw little need for the cloak any longer, and tossed it aside. Strider shook his head when she did this, more to himself than to reprimand her, and continued cooking the rabbit. But she _did_ see it, that small movement, and frowned at him, before casting a look down at herself and her garments.

"**Do my ankles offend you**?" she asked with an amused smile, and he looked at her again. By no means was she dressed inappropriately by the standards of the gala, and people at galas were actually rather prude, and so she failed to see any problem; there was a certain degree of class involved in such events, and she followed that doctrine like most others she worked with. _Arms, calves, a little bit of shoulder_, she listed as she looked over the skin that she had exposed. _Hm, perhaps he's old-fashioned_.

Letting her hair down, she moved closer to the fire, raising her hands to warm them. Throwing the accessories in to the flames was a tempting notion, but she resisted, and threw them to the ground instead. As she relaxed, she grew unaware of Strider's watchful gaze, which only left her every so often.

He found her to be a riddle, all of her language, her dress, and her manner. The more he observed, the more dubious he became about his previous interpretation of her being a woman of the night. He had seen them around towns, and it was common knowledge that they would rarely be so bold as to wear their business with their garments; they could not afford to be so obvious and risk being apprehended. This woman was built for something entirely different, from the tone in her arms and legs. A shield-maiden? But of course, a shield-maiden would not run from one single orc, nor would she travel unarmed. Strider could only hope that the riddle would begin to unfold shortly, so that he could continue his journey to Bree.

Once he had finished preparing their meal, he offered her a share, which she took after some apprehension. Bemused, he watched her turn it in her hands, tilting her head from side to side with suspicious eyes narrowed for assessment. He wanted to assure her that the food was not poisoned, but thought the better of it with the given language barrier. And she did eat, eventually, though she stared at the meat with a folorn expression following each bite.

"**Some of my colleagues**," she said after a while, "**they go for days without food. And here I am, eating meat for the first time in twelve years without any real encouragement**." Naturally, Strider would not understand her words, but the silence brought her discomfort, and she found it difficult to believe that he would be the one to initiate conversation any time soon; when the silence fell once more, she continued to speak. "**The sky looks lovely. There's all of this light pollution in the city, so you can't see the stars.**"

A grin escaped her when he followed her gaze to the sky, and repeated the word in his own tongue; she did the same, earning an appraising inclination of his head. Then the smile faltered, and she let out a long and heavy sigh.

"**I'm not in London anymore, am I**?" she asked, prodding at the wound on her head once more. She stopped when Strider cleared his throat, and sent an apologetic glance his way, before muttering, "**Either that, or I've well and truly gone mad**."

Some time passed before either of them started with noise again, and even then it was naught but another quiet song from Strider. It was a strange thing for Maude, to hear him sing so casually in her presence. As with most other people, she sang all of the time—in the shower, or whilst doing the housework, mostly—but she rarely showcased her vocals when human beings were in vicinity. It was a very human thing, she believed; singing even when one could not carry a tune. It was near cathartic, and what was even more so was listening to Strider's voice at that time. There was something in his tone, something pensive and almost despondent, that had her believe he was singing to someone who was not there. Lamentation? Unless the person was not lost, not entirely, yet merely just out of reach.

* * *

The morning came soon enough, though Maude had spent little of the night asleep. As had Strider, it seemed, though he nonetheless appeared tireless when dawn arrived. He gathered up the bedroll and his equipment in high spirits, much to the confusion of Maude, who believed that anyone who had spent a night of vigil should be grumpy, at least. Yet he hurried her along, across the fields and through the trees, and despite the length of his legs in comparison with her own, she managed to keep up with him. He was not too impressed by this, however, as he had already deduced the previous night that someone of her muscle tone should have no struggle with long hikes across the plains.

By the evening they had reached a small town, where Strider was sure to have Maude tighten the cloak around herself once more. Between her inability to comprehend the Common Speech and her queer manner of clothing, rumours would be sure to fly, and the last thing the young woman needed was a reputation in lands she had not travelled. Regardless, she received odd looks from the townsfolk, which she remained adamant was down to Strider, rather than herself.

They entered a pub on the far side of the town—the Prancing Pony, though Maude had no way of knowing its title—in which Strider instructed her to sit in the far corner whilst he took to the bar to discuss a matter with the inn-keeper.

From the expression on his face, Maude guessed that the inn-keeper was unused to conversing with Strider, which prompted a feeling of unease in the pit of her stomach. People were casting him fleeting looks of caution, as though he were a man to be feared throughout their exchange, and then in turn to her, the strange woman with whom he had arrived. She shifted in her seat awkwardly until he returned, and the other patrons went about their own business once more.

After several moments, she opened her mouth to speak, only to be silenced by Strider, who pressed a finger to his lips and shook his head.

"You cannot speak in your own tongue here, Maude," he said in a hushed voice, though the only thing she recognised was her name. "It will rouse suspicion."

Uneventful hours passed, and Maude was growing increasingly bored and impatient. She wondered what his motive was for bringing her here, or if she had little to do with it at all. Her questions were answered nearly as quickly as they were brought to her attention, when four of the most diminuitive and odd-looking people she had ever encountered walked in to the inn. They seemed to have the astute attention of Strider, who tensed the moment they crossed the threshold.

They behaved quite like everyone else, ordering drinks and making merry, until one began to mingle with the grown men, and began to point out one of his companions. Strider became even more alert, and finally vacated his seat when one of the small men seemed to vanish entirely.

Maude watched fearfully when the man reappeared, and Strider dragged him away and out of sight. Perhaps she had been fooled, and his good nature a fallacy; in either case, she was not prepared to allow him to hurt someone who stood no taller than a mere child.

* * *

**Author's note**: This will probably follow some aspects of the books and the films; the films seem more convenient to follow, but there will definitely be some bookverse in here. Hence everyone speaking Westron and Maude not having a clue what's going on.

**Softballgirl**: Thank you! As far as Legomances go, I find it difficult to believe that he would ever be romantically involved with a person of any other race than an Elf. Even less so in an instant!

**smore9**: (I spot a TARDIS in your icon, which pleases me greatly.) Given her occupation as a ballet dancer, I think there are some fighting techniques she might excel at, though perhaps not all the obvious ones ;)

**Her Royal Nonsense**: Yes, I was wary about even writing a "OC finds themselves in Middle-earth" kind of story, but I'm really glad you think that I might be able to pull it off! I just want to explore what problems may actually arise from a 21st Century human stumbling into Middle-earth (e.g. the language barrier—we all seem to forget the language barrier). But I really do thank you for giving this a try.


	3. Chapter 3

Maude hastened to the bar, where she grabbed an old broom from the far left despite the alarmed glances from both the staff and the patrons, before running promptly after the other men, who seemed to have noted the disappearance of their friend. She followed them up a short flight of stairs and down a corridor, and watched as they burst through the furthest door along. In a moment of frenzy she joined them, taking a defensive stance and clutching the broom for dear life.

It became apparent then that Strider meant the small men no harm, as he sheathed his weapon and sent a reproachful look her way. When the others set aside their own makeshift weapons (a barstool, a candelabra, and a pair of fists, respectively), Maude maintained her grip on the broom.

"What was she going to do with that?" asked the man who had wielded the barstool just moments ago, introduced to Strider as Pippin.

And the introductions were brief, for there was no time to waste. Nevertheless, Merry and Pippin took a moment to explain themselves as "Hobbits" to Maude, following their names. They found her to be a curious woman, which in turn led to their interest in pointing at random objects and naming them in Westron, whilst she did the same in English. They were soon hushed, however, by Strider, who began to illustrate the situation of the Ringwraiths which were hounding the hobbits.

All Maude understood was that it was a delicate one.

As they left Bree, she kept the broom, having adamantly refused to part with it despite the insistance of Strider. He simply hoped that the hobbits would keep her occupied enough for him to casually slip it away without her noticing; a broom could hardly be classified as a formidable weapon against the _hobbits_, let alone against Ringwraiths. Still, she seemed to be in a considerably better mood with both the item and the hobbits in proximity, and so he argued with her no further on the matter.

"Where did you find her, Strider?" questioned Frodo.

"Across the Northern Bree-fields. She was being hunted by an orc."

"In the Northern Bree-fields?!" he repeated, aghast. "What would an orc be doing in Eriador?"

"You forget," said Strider, "that the Northern Bree-fields are bordered with the North Downs. My kinsmen there have recently encountered many problems entailing orcs and goblins." He gave a soft chuckle at the hobbit's expression. "You appear confused, Frodo. _Angmar_ is to the north-east of those lands, and with this new threat, its creatures are becoming very bold."

"Then the Shire is no longer a safe place," lamented Frodo, shaking his head.

"Do not despair just yet, Frodo; there are many protectors in the north who shall not see it fall."

A female voice startled them from their conversation, enquiring, "Where we go?"

Merry and Pippin stifled their laughter from the back, but a slow grin formed across the face of Maude. Her grammar had been poor, yet the sheer effort from the hobbits in training her to shock them with a question worked wonders. Of course, poor Maude still hadn't the foggiest as to what she had just asked him, having only repeated what the hobbits had encouraged her to.

"You already know where we're going," he called to them, and they composed themselves. "I suggest that you find another way to entertain yourselves. Such questions are of no use to her, even more so when she cannot comprehend their meaning, nor the answer she receives in return. If you wish to help her, teach her to translate, not to repeat."

Merry whispered to Pippin, "Well, she can name ten different types of tree now, eh?"

The hobbits chuckled amongst themselves once more, as Maude plodded along next to them, broom still in hand. As they made their way to Rivendell, she collected a rough-edged stone from the ground, and began happily carving the top of the broom in to a sharp point, earning a number of worried frowns from her companions. Indubitably, she had no intention of using the weapon for combat, though this was entirely due to her belief that she would not _need _to engage in any violence; there was no doubt in her mind that Strider and his frighteningly sharp sword could keep any plausible foes at bay, as irritating as it were for her to feel the need to rely on a strong male figure for protection. She continued her work once they had settled for the night, and the hobbits had started a fire and went about cooking a meal. Their own conversation held little interest for her, and she was attuned only to her actions and musings.

"**This is positively archaic of me**," she murmured, brushing some splinters of wood from the broom handle. "**Conforming to gender roles like this** ... **goodness me** ..." It was then she realised that perhaps modifying a broom to a pike was not at all conformist behaviour.**  
**

Before this epiphany of redemption could entirely satisfy her, there came a shrill cry from across the way. There was no word in her vocabulary which could describe the sound with any justice; it was a horrid, cacophonous screech of a sound, ricocheting from synapse to synapse in her mind, piercing through to the darkest depths of her core and rattling fear from it to fall from her lips in the strangest of whimpers. She fumbled with the broom and it fell to the ground.

Within moments, she was being dragged up the harsh stone steps of Amon Sûl by the hobbits with their drawn swords. _Swords_? _Where on earth did they get those_? At that moment, she wished terribly that she had been paying more attention to their interaction with Strider, who seemed to have departed. _How very convenient_, she fumed, quickly taking the broom from the floor once again; after all, it was better to have a poor weapon than none at all.

They formed a circle at the top of the ruins, back to back, with restless shifting and trembling to take their legs. The Black Riders descended upon them without pity, and Maude and the halflings backed away, all formation broken.

"Back, you devils!" cried Sam, lunging to attack. He was cast aside like a mere doll, likewise Merry and Pippin after him.

Whether it was adrenaline or a fraction of faith in her own abilities, Maude did not know, yet she, too, leapt at the approaching Ringwraith, using the broom as a vaulting pole, and promptly kicked him in the chest. The Ringwraith simply staggered for a moment and hissed at her in his anguish.

"**I can do this all day**!" she warned, voice shaking. "**I have been for a very long time, now**!"

Yet even she knew that she could not keep it up, not against such foes as these. She doubted they cared very much about how many times her feet came into contact with their chests, or their stomachs, or even their heads. These were no mortal man, and of that much she was certain.

She kicked out again with a practiced turn, only to be evaded. "**Two months as Cinderella's understudy**!" she proclaimed, folly as it were. "**Do you know how many hours I spent with that bloody broom? And I _never—even—got__ to__—perform_**!" With every bitter word she thrust the speared end of the broom toward her attacker, though she never once struck him.

The Ringwraith had become impatient, and shoved Maude aside with the same ease as he had the hobbits. She rolled across the ground, the broom tumbling in the opposite direction.

What happened next was most peculiar: time shifted in pace, only she could not determine in which way; Frodo disappeared behind the looming shadow of the Ringwraith, who would still not be dissuaded, and plunged his blade into where he had been scrambling across the ground seconds prior.

Maude observed, stricken, and only returned to conscious thought when Strider intervened. As he drove them off with sword and flame, she nearly forgot about the wounded hobbit, watching his plight with awe from the ground. But Frodo's kin caught her attention as they rushed to his aid, and she was prompt to join them.

"Strider!" Sam called frantically. "Help him, Strider!"

"He's been stabbed by a Morgul blade," said the Ranger, crouched at his side. The blade dissolved no sooner had he spoken. "This is beyond my skill to heal. He needs Elvish medicine." With Frodo over his shoulder, he made for the steps with his companions in tow. He gave a small start at the sound of more screeches. "Hurry!"

"We're six days from Rivendell_—_he'll never make it!"

Placing a hand on Sam's shoulder, Maude ushered him along with the other. She knew despair when she heard it, and more so than those drowning in it needed comfort and a rational hand. Though she feared for Frodo, Strider had proven to her on two occasions now that he was not one for allowing others to die when such an outcome was preventable. Dangerous as he seemed, he also seemed a man one could place their faith in._  
_

Something nudged her elbow as they walked, and she turned her head to see Pippin, with the broom in his arms. Smiling weakly, she took it from him, wondering if maybe those hours of rehearsal for a performance which never came had not been as assuredly useless as she had thought.

* * *

**A/N**: This is quite a short chapter, and I apologise for that. If I can, I'll get the next one up tonight, and if not, it will definitely be up tomorrow.

**smore9**: I would hope to make her dance at some point in the story, but you're quite right about the lack of ballet in Middle-earth. Would there even be a word in Westron for "ballet"? (And it's always nice to have someone with good taste in television paying attention to something I've written.)


	4. Chapter 4

They travelled for days with little sign of improvement in Frodo, despite the best efforts of the Ranger. He had boiled the leaves of the athelas plant to apply to the wound, and nursed him in order to sustain his life for at least a while longer, yet the hobbit lingered on the furthermost edge of death, and he spoke not a word other than to answer a question from Pippin regarding the gold of some trolls. He had wondered, as was his inquisitive nature, how much there remained to be of their treasure, when it had been taken by a relative of Frodo's, Bilbo, many years ago.

"None at all. Bilbo gave it all away. He told me he did not feel it was really his, as it came from robbers."

Maude had wanted to ask more about this Bilbo character, whose name had arisen in conversation many times since the arrival of the hobbits. But alas, she did not think she could follow much of what she assumed would be a descriptive tale.

Until the early hours of the evening they continued along the road, when their ears were met with the conspicuous sound of hooves. The panic was brief, as Frodo spoke again in his hushed voice, "That does not sound like a Black Rider's horse!"

Strider rushed ahead of them then, hurtling toward a man with golden hair and wearing a finely sewn cloak. For a second, Maude believed that Strider would attack this absurdly beautiful man, but he was instead greeted as an old friend.

"_Ai na vedui, Dúnadan_! _Mae govannen_!"

When the rider reached them, her breath hitched in her throat, and she had to cast her look away from him. He was a creature of literature, of classical tales from centuries long passed; there was not one man she could compare him to, neither in beauty nor presence. She felt truly ridiculous in front of him, in a dirty cloak after days of weary travel, and it was all she could do not to look at his face, for the fear that their gaze would meet and a familiar shade of pink would flush to her cheeks. And so, she stared at the ground, digging her heels into the soil. _You never thanked Strider for collecting your shoes_, she reminded herself idly, for the sake of having something else to think about. Any further into her own thoughts, and she would have missed that the rider and Strider were engaging in a different chatter than she had grown accustomed to. _Of course he would be multilingual in everything but English, wouldn't he_?

"This is Glorfindel, who dwells in the house of Elrond," he said to the hobbits.

"Hail, and well met at last! I was sent from Rivendell to look for you. We feared that you were in danger upon the road."

"Then Gandalf has reached Rivendell?"

"No," Glorindel answered Frodo. "He had not when I departed; but that was nine days ago."

As he spoke, Maude turned her attention to Frodo, who began to sway as the conversation furthered. Around them, the evening was settling to a darker hour, and she imagined that night would shortly befall them.

"My master is sick and wounded," said Sam, when Frodo had needed to take hold of his arm to keep his balance. "He can't go on riding after nightfall. He needs rest."

The hobbit began to slip to the ground, but found himself in the arms of the new arrival, whose perturbed eyes searched his face. Glorfindel listened to Strider's tale of the happenings at Weathertop, and insisted that Frodo continue to Rivendell on his own horse. Though he at first refused, the hobbit eventually relented, and allowed himself to be carried by the grand steed slightly ahead of the others, whilst Glorfindel led the rest of the group on.

If Maude had ever struggled with Strider's pace, she was certainly struggling with his. But the Ranger himself walked ahead with him, discussing in hushed tones the circumstances of her affiliation with the journey. She watched them curiously, wondering which conclusion they would arrive at, both regarding her situation and what it was that they planned to do with her once they arrived at their destination. Perhaps they would be distrustful, and command her leave; or otherwise compassionate, and assist her in her plight to return back to London.

Eventually, they settled down for the night, though not for too long. Maude felt that it was no sooner had she fallen asleep was Strider shaking her gently by the shoulders, and motioning for her to join the rest of them to continue on. Still, Glorfindel offered them a draught to give them strength, and they ate what food was available as they walked. It was not a diet that Maude was particularly unaccustomed to, but she found herself longing for that night by the fire with Strider's cooked rabbit, for _anything_ with even the slightest taste.

They continued like this for a number of days, during which time Maude discovered an odd revelation. Her _nails_ had not grown at all since she had arrived in this foreign land; nor had her hair, or her brows. But the strangest thing was that she had never once found herself needing to relieve herself. How she had failed to notice until after so long had passed, she was unsure. She was even more unsure of how she would communicate these notions to Strider, or if she even wanted to. She could leave out any bathroom-related business, but it seemed a good idea to tell him about her non-changing physical state, as it would probably be of some interest to him.

She sidled next to he and Glorfindel, whose fleeting glance she successfully evaded, and tapped Strider on the shoulder. Once she had his attention, she pointed at the trees which surrounded the area, and spoke the name aloud in Westron.

"She does speak _some _Westron, then?" Glorfindel enquired, and Strider shook his head.

"This is the hobbits' doing. Several words are the extent of her vocabulary."

She tapped him again. "**This isn't a joke, Strider**."

"How strange!" exclaimed Glorfindel, peering as though he had only just seen her. "And this is no tongue of Men, or of Elves or Dwarves?"

Her cheeks grew warm under the assessment of Glorfindel, and she tapped at Strider's shoulder once more, pointing again at the trees, and moving her hand from around her knees to far above her head.

"I believe that she is simulating growth, my friend," said Glorfindel, sounding amused. When she began to tug at her own hair, and point at each of her fingers with the opposite hand in turn and with a shake of her head, he added, "Or lack thereof."

Strider took hold of her left hand, then, and raised it to his own eyes, before proclaiming, "She's quite right. Her fingernails have not in the slightest grown since I discovered her." He released her hand and faced her more fully, frowning. "Her forehead has not healed."

"That can be treated," said Glorfindel. "She will need to be examined, however. A woman who cannot heal is a woman in danger."

Maude wanted desperately to know what they were saying, but Glorfindel suddenly sprang forward and cried out. She spun on her toes, catching a glimpse of foul, shrouded figures on dark horses in the trees; there were five of them, as there had been at Weathertop. They brought an evil with them in the atmosphere, as mist swept around the trees and across the ground, enveloping the greenery in a grey vice.

Despite Glorfindel's orders, Frodo hesitated. The Elf commanded the horse when the hobbit lingered, and the steed raced ahead with a strength and speed unparalleled by any that Maude herself had witnessed. The muscles of its legs rippled as it ran, and it had disappeared at a distance in a matter of seconds. This could only impress her for so long, however, as from the Riders there came a cry: piercing, painful, and every bit as awful as she had remembered. But the cry had been more than that-it had been a call, and it was not left unanswered. Four other Riders emerged from the thick of the forest, and two immediately set upon him, whilst the others made to cut off any escape toward the Ford.

Glorfindel pursued them at the front, once they had disappeared from sight, with Strider and Maude in pace behind him, and the remaining three hobbits behind them.

* * *

There was no way to be sure of how long they ran, and Maude had not the heart to ask, but her legs and her lungs were aching when they arrived in Rivendell; so overcome by the sensation was she that the beauty of the place nearly escaped her attention.

The elves all observed the newcomers with great intrigue, with some coming forward to greet their kinsman and Strider. One or two rushed to tend to the hobbits, but she had been unexpected company, and was therefore less welcome. They stared, distrusting, until one finally approached from the throng, having exchanged brief words with Strider, and scrutinised her.

He was every bit as lovely as Glorfindel, and far more intimidating. His hands were before him, clasped tightly in a way that commanded authority, and he spoke to her in that still unfamiliar tongue that Glorfindel had to Strider in their closed conversations. Maude was beginning to wonder why they even bothered, any more. When she said nothing, he turned to Strider and spoke again, "I would have words with the wizard. There must be an incantation or charm for a matter such as this. I cannot wholly trust a stranger in Imladris, more so in these dark times. But at least we may rest well in the knowledge that she was in presence of the Ring, and had many opportunities to take it from the halfling, and she did not. _Lle anta est, mellonea_. _Khila amin_."

They were each of them escorted to separate rooms, then, and offered sleeping draughts to accommodate for any missed rest.

"**Ridiculous**," Maude muttered to herself, once she had taken the draught willingly and clambered into the bed, "**that I feel the need to rest. Physical exertion aside, I should be as fit and well as I was at the gala**."

Nevertheless, she drifted into a sound and dreamless sleep the moment she had shut her eyes, and did not awaken again until the following afternoon.

There were clothes prepared for her, for which she was grateful, and through a screen door there was a bath for her. It seemed to her that the elves had anticipated the length of time she had slept for, and busied themselves around the room as she slumbered. In spite of the intrusion, she didn't mind, and felt rather cheery as she slipped into the steaming water, and bathed for the first time in days.

For over an hour, she scrubbed the dirt from her body and from underneath her fingernails, and washed the grease from her hair. She lost count of the fragrant products she used whilst in there, only taking the time to bask in the myriad of scents before finally climbing from the wooden tub and reaching for a towel.

The towels were almost too soft for her, having been so used to the rough materials that had served almost as a brillo-pad back in her London flat. Though the feeling was unfamiliar, she found it to be not altogether unpleasant.

When she returned to the room to examine the clothing, she discovered that she had been left with several pairs of shoes, one of which closely resembled those of her old ballet slippers, thin leather soles and all. She smiled at them fondly, before drawing the leggings up to her waist, and pulling the dress over her head.

The dress itself was a pale green, and had an embroidered neckline. Its sleeves were close-fitting up until the elbow, where they billowed out and met the hem of the dress on the floor. When she caught sight of herself in the room's mirror, she twisted her face. There was something _wrong_ with the reflection, yet she couldn't pinpoint the exact problem. In the end, she sighed, and went out onto the balcony to wring some more water from her hair.

"**You're not one of them. That's the problem**."

The view from the balcony was stunning; wooden buildings with pale towers, enclosed in a space of trees and heathers, where water fell from the mountain-tops in several streams. Every wall belonged to a monument worthy of the richest fairy-tales, and there was not one shade the sun had ignored. Light and loveliness were panoramic, and Maude could have grown and passed in its beauty; for the life of the place to feed on what had once been her own seemed a pleasant dream of sorts. It was a shame to think that it would instead be the cold creatures of England's earth to do so. There was so little dignity in the death of a mortal.

"It would seem that our friend is awake, Lord Elrond," said a voice from the doorway, and Maude jumped in fright at the sudden sound. The man who had spoken was elderly to the point where she could not so much as hazard a guess at his true age, as though he wore some thinly veiled disguise she could not push through with any blade of human deduction. His robes were worn and grey, as was the tall hat atop his head, curling at its point. He was a wizard to behold if there ever was one. "You are quite certain that she speaks no language beknownst to Elves or Men?"

"So I've been told. She did not grace us with her voice when she arrived yesterday; but I have it on good word from both Estel and Glorfindel."

"Very well!" said the wizard, approaching Maude with a quiet incantation on his tongue.

Within a moment, her head felt cool, and her ears as though they had been covered by cling film. Sounds became muffled, and an overwhelming vertigo took hold of her mind, prompting her to stumble forward. She steadied herself on a small table, and each sensation drifted away, leaving a pleasant warmth in their wake.

"Now! Let us see what the young woman has to say for herself ..."

Only Maude still did not understand. She stared at him blankly, blinking once or twice.

"Well! Out with it!"

Sensing the wizard's impatience, Maude stuttered a few apologies and began to shake her head vigorously.

"She still does not understand."

"No ... it would appear not." The wizard removed his hat and scratched at his head, muttering a string of phrases under his breath. "Impossible ... simply impossible ... that ought to have worked ..."

"Then why did it not?"

"I have only one explanation," he replied. "Though it is an absurd one; one I am sure you will struggle to believe."

"You are no liar, Mithrandir. Nor are you a fool."

"You may feel differently, after what I am about to ask you." The wizard faced the Elf-lord with a grave expression, setting his hat back on his head. "What do you know of other worlds, my Lord Elrond?"

* * *

_Ai na vedui, Dúnadan__! Mae govannen!** -** _Ah, at last, Westman! Well met!  
_Lle anta est, mellonea_. _Khila amin_. - You need to rest, friends. Follow me.

* * *

**A/N**: I was torn between Arwen and Glorfindel for the rescue. Whilst I was glad that Arwen had more of a presence in the films than she did in the books, I resented the fact the Glorfindel all but disappeared.

**Antheila**: Welcome to my citadel of poorly executed fiction! But thank you so much for the feedback. And I completely see what you mean about reviews being slow-going in the LotR fandom. I, myself, have a habit of sticking to the stories with more than 40,000 words and happen to be updated regularly, so I entirely understand why the people who read it choose not to review. Thank you again for yours, though!

**smore9**: That sounds like a good idea, actually! I can't imagine a person being able to cope without their livelihood, so it would make sense for her to get some practice in when she can.


	5. Chapter 5

Word spread like wildfire of Rivendell's foreign visitor. There were many stares, many cautionary whispers that followed her around the outpost where ever she ventured; through gardens, down stairs, along the warm breeze and under awnings. Maude could not escape the scrutiny unless she hid in her guest-room, which is precisely what she elected to do.

In her room, she danced. She altered one of the pairs of shoes she had been gifted by the Elves of Elrond's house, and spent her time drifting between adagio and allegro, from plié to relevé, pretending that she were in the studio with the company pianist, Colin, and rehearsing for dances which never met the stage. It was liberating, to dance without an audience, and if she were being honest with herself, she preferred it that way. There was no pressure for perfection, no-one to stand and scold her for any sloppy movements, or improvisation. Her twists and turns were wild, and she was content with the burning in her toes.

For nearly a week, she saw nothing of her travelling companions, nor of the grey wizard, Gandalf, or the Elf-lord, Elrond. And so she continued to dance, in the morning, in the evening, throughout the night. She was a woman frozen in time, with no need for sustenance, and little need for sleep, if she was careful not to over-exert herself. And, when the exhaustion did arrive, she would sleep for half the day, then return to her dance.

There did come a day, however, when her practice was rudely interrupted; Hobbits, apparently, did not know how to knock. They caught her at an odd time, as she tumbled to the ground head-first, and cried out at her action. She rolled swiftly and landed in a seated position, with her right leg hooked over the left, then gave a startled laugh. The following hour was spent explaining to them that she was a dancer, and she had by no means hurt herself in the fall. Of course, this new information had the hobbits wishing to watch her perform, and they proved difficult people to refuse. They agreed to meet at dusk.

"May I bring Bilbo along?" Frodo asked her, and, having caught the name of the elder hobbit and the tone of his voice, Maude nodded.

She appreciated the fact that the hobbits had most likely never experienced ballet, and that they would be far less critical and difficult to impress than the elves. In truth, Maude was rather frightened of the elves; it was bizarre for her to be around people so human and yet so _inhuman_.

"**You mustn't laugh at me**," she warned the hobbits before they departed, and they only glanced at one another in confusion.

A sliver of excitement rushed through her, once the weight of performing had worn off. The hobbits were wonderful—there were few so kind as they that Maude had encountered in her life, and their enthusiasm had in retrospect been delightful.

The before the sun set, she set about pinning the sleeves and skirts of one of the Elven gowns, so that the fabric would not get torn when she danced. The modifications had her wanting to help out the costume department once she found her way back to London. _For Swan Lake_, she thought to herself. _Kevin probably won't want me anywhere near the production—least of all the costumes—but maybe if I can convince the elves to let me bring some of their fabrics with me_ ...

Maude put a halt to her inner monologue and dressed herself for her meeting with the hobbits.

Creatures were chirruping by the time she made her way down to the gardens by the pool, and the sun had begun to nestle into the horizon for the evening, leaving effulgent red skies in its wake. There were stars visible even then, flickering with the faintest of lights. Dusk had never been more alive than it was in that moment.

Frodo and his elderly cousin were by the water when she arrived, peering into its depths as though searching for something spectacular; and it _was_ a sight to behold, indeed, as she proclaimed from behind their backs upon approaching, and causing both hobbits to nearly tumble into the water in their fright. All three laughed once they had recovered, and Bilbo extended a hand toward her to shake.

"Not a word of Westron, you say?" Bilbo asked the younger Baggins.

"A few," he replied, "but not enough for conversation, so don't you go about telling her any of your long-winded tales."

"Nonsense!" cried Bilbo. "Although, even if I did, she hasn't the tongue to complain, has she?"

"Uncle!"

"I'm _joking_, lad."

Maude simply looked on.

Sam, Merry and Pippin joined them soon after, arms filled with an assortment of foods.

"It's customary to provide something to eat when someone else is providing the entertainment," asserted Pippin, taking a seat on the ground with his kinsmen. They shared the food between them when Maude refused the offer, and grew comfortable in the warm evening breeze.

"**There are no Elves about**," she assured herself quietly, turning her back to the audience for a moment of preparation. "**This isn't a show ... just a bit of fun**."

She exhaled slowly, placing her arms in Cecchetti third and legs in fifth. In her head, she could hear Jack at the piano with his ivory keys and arpeggios, guiding her form with the sound. And she performed with more heart for the hobbits than she had for her English audiences; there were few things worse in her mind than a life without the joys of an art so beautiful, and she wanted to leave them with with a perfectly pleasant impression.

From the ground, Bilbo whispered, "How does one go about standing on their toes like that?"

Frodo hushed him, and they continued to observe in silence, breaking it only to applaud when she had finished. Bilbo stood to do so, and the others followed suit, and for a moment Maude felt rather emotional about receiving a standing ovation for a solo performance, however small the audience. She wished then that she could invite them to a show back in London, perhaps with Kate Hannigan and Eric Ivanov as its leading dancers—the two were nothing short of phenomenal, and Maude would go so far as to say that one hadn't seen a performance until they had been audience to one of such a standard. Kate and Eric were the poster couple for ballet, and Kevin never let anyone else forget it, not that one could even if they tried._  
_

Another sound of applause chorused from a few hundred yards away, and all pairs of eyes turned to see Strider accompanying a female elf through the gardens, both wearing warm smiles upon their faces. Embarrassed, Maude began to wonder if Elves slept at all, and headed over to them, rubbing the back of her neck as she did. If Kate and Eric were the poster couple for ballet, Strider and his female companion were the poster couple for everything else. Her presence had washed the years and weariness from his face, and his eyes carried the elevated weight of his song from the nights on guard around the fire.

"A dancer," said Strider, his arm through hers. "I wouldn't have guessed."

"You surprise me, Estel," she laughed. "See the strength in her arms and legs? From Bree to Imladris, she walked with you, and you did not question her endurance?"

"I questioned it. I questioned many things, Arwen."

"A dancer is most welcome, here, but I do not imagine my father would have her stay," said the she-elf with a sad smile. "A pity; it would have been lovely to have her dance for us all, one night." Arwen surveyed Maude for several moments in quiet assessment, then gave another soft laugh. "Oh! but I do think we're making her nervous, Estel. I think an introduction is in order." And, once names had been exchanged, she added, "We really must begin to teach her the language ..."

"Gandalf is insisting that there would be not point. He intends to find a working spell, yet I see him growing more frustrated each day. But the grey wizard is nothing if not determined."

Arwen's voice became serious as she asked, "And what of the visiting Men? The Gondorians? They will be suspicious of her, Estel. If it is made known to them that we have in our company a woman from another world, how do you think they will react?"

"They cannot meet her; not until we've decided what to do with her."

Maude was frightened by the solemn conversation she could not understand.

* * *

The following day, Maude was called to a meeting alongside Gandalf the Grey and Strider. Her fate was to be decided by the wizard, the Ranger, and the Elf-lord before Rivendell's visitors could arrive. Gandalf had muttered a number of things under his breath when she made her appearance, and watched her with an intent gaze for the seconds that followed. When nothing occurred, he emitted an indignant shout of "confound it all" and took a seat opposite Elrond. She was reluctant to sit with him afterwards, until Strider rested a hand upon her shoulder and guided her to a seat of her own, with himself placed between the young woman and the wizard.

"This is quite infuriating," said Gandalf, tapping his staff against the floor as he did. "We are going to get absolutely nowhere unless we can efficiently communicate with one another, lest the woman be doomed to spend an eternity in a world that is not her own!"

"And yet you deny her the education, Mithrandir," returned Elrond pointedly.

"Forgive me, Lord Elrond, but unless one party is fluent in both tongues, the other cannot be educated."

"In any case, we are not here to discuss her education," the Elf-lord dismissed the reply with a gesture of his hand. "We are here to discuss where she will go, following your departure. Alas, she cannot journey with you, as she has not the skill to survive—"

"Pardon the interruption, but that may not be true," Strider interjected. "Peregrin Took informed me that she engaged a Ringwraith in combat at Weathertop. Whilst she may have been unsuccessful in terms of defeat, she _survived_ the encounter."

"The Nazgûl were drawn to the Ring—they would not have cared enough about the confrontation to end her life." Elrond straightened his back, eyeing the Ranger with some scepticism. "I had not imagined that you would be so enthusiastic about her joining the Fellowship, Estel."

"_Estel_," came Maude's own voice quite suddenly. The second time the word fell from her mouth, it was a question: "Estel?" She had heard the name in conversation used to address the man she knew as Strider, and it had pestered her mind throughout the night.

The Ranger, however, ignored her and continued to speak to Elrond, "Do not mistake my attitude for enthusiasm. I only vouch for her skill because I know that she cannot stay here in Rivendell; and what other choice is there?"

"Lothlórien," Gandalf replied. "Perhaps Lady Galadriel—"

"_Lothlórien_?" echoed Elrond, incredulous. "Lothlórien is leagues away, Mithrandir! And there are more important matters to attend to than the delivery of a mortal woman to the Golden Wood!"

At his harsh tone, Maude shrunk back in her seat, and set her sights on her hands. They clutched at the arms of the chair so tightly that her knuckles were burning white, and the veins stood prominent between them. Though he had not shouted, there was an argument in his voice, and in that of Gandalf's. It was queer, how civil they remained throughout the adversity.

As they debated, Strider placed his hand atop her own to grab her attention, then pointed to himself and whispered, "Strider. Estel. _Aragorn_."

Maude repeated the name as quietly as he had, while the exchange went unnoticed by Elrond and Gandalf. A slow-burning agitation coiled in her stomach at the lie she had been told, when she had been true and honest with her own name. Her jaw set, and she removed her hand from underneath his and folded her arms across her chest. It was maddening; she understood scarcely anything in Middle-earth, and the Ranger hadn't even the heart to give her his real name.

"We are tiring our friend," he interrupted the dispute in as mannerly a way as he could muster. "This may be a quarrel for another day."

It was agreed, and Gandalf followed Elrond out on to the balcony to discuss other matters, whilst Maude made her swift exit and retired to her chambers with even less equitable information than she had when she woke up that morning.

There were no fallacies in a dance.

* * *

**A/N**: Thank you to everyone who has added this story to their alerts! It's much appreciated, I promise you.

**Antheila**: Yes! I'm trying to keep the creativity flowing. Too many times I've found myself at a dead end with my writing. Many thanks again!

**FlayAltadusa**: Thank you for taking the time to review the chapters so far! And I have no problem with acronyms. Acronym-ise away! And all of your compliments make me want to cry. _Seriously_. It means the world to me.

**smore9**: It's always nice to have reviewers I can rely on for potential plot ideas!

**CGKrows**: Ooh! What kind of dancing do you and your sister do? Also, feel free to correct any of my mistakes when it comes to dance theory. And thank you for the idea—I really like the notion of her harnessing her dance skills in a fight!

**Like It D**: Hard road all of the way. I am not a fan of gratuitous deus ex machina, and I'm trying my best to keep her from straying into the category of Mary Sue. If she makes mistakes, I want people to know that she's made them, and I want her to suffer the consequences. Same goes for her being irrational—I don't want other characters to think, "Oh, I can see her point" when there's little or no justification for it. Kind of like what she's doing with Aragorn, now! It's quite infantile, what she's doing, because she hasn't even considered _why _he might lie about his name. And long comments are good, deary!


	6. Chapter 6

A voice pierced through Maude's dreams that night. It was a low and deep rumble, like a mountain felled in a landslide, and enough to rouse her to conscious thought; and yet it were quiet, barely a whisper, as though the voice had spoken through a physical wave, rather than an audible one. The conundrum rattled her, and sent a shiver down a spine as she opened her eyes without the merest gasp.

Above her stood the wizard without his hat. Gandalf the Grey. That was what they called him, she understood, though only after Pippin had flung every grey object in sight toward her, whilst repeating his name over and over again with that cheery little grin on his face. He liked to be helpful that way. In fact, Pippin liked to be helpful in a number of ways, though many proved only in effect through a means of mischief. Merry was his accomplice, naturally, and Master Bilbo Baggins did naught to dissuade the two, despite the numerous scoldings he received from Frodo for encouraging them.

"Up with you!"

Gandalf pulled her from the bed by the arm, earning a grunt of protest from Maude. She scowled at him with reproach when he released her, but it did nothing to stop the wizard from hurrying her along.

"This will not do!" He made his way to the door with his staff hitting the ground on every step. "Hardly efficient—I daresay it takes less time to wake a hobbit! Come along! _Before_ death should claim you in old age, if you please ..."

He led her outside and along pathways until they reached an area in Rivendell that Maude had not yet encountered. It was a moderate space, with weapons aligning the walls: bows, swords and staves, all organised in weight and size. In the corner, Gandalf had lit candles—enough to illuminate the structure, thus enabling the two to walk around without hurting themselves on any sharp objects. But that did not stop Maude from walking into the edge of a wooden table.

"Be careful," he warned her as she rubbed her knee. "Some of the weapons in here are older than you are, and _very_ valuable. Now, let's see ..."

For some time, Gandalf bustled around her, taking measurements of her height and her limbs. After he was satisfied, he retrieved a stave from the corner and handed it to her.

"If you can fight with a broom, you can fight with a stave," said the wizard. "I'm certain you would forgive me for choosing to begin with this, rather than a sword. That is, of course, for both our sakes." Then, he smiled and told her, "Attack me."

Maude stared. Thirty seconds passed, and she glanced down at the stave in her hands, then back at the wizard with his own staff. She began to shake her head, insisting, "**This is a dreadful idea**."

"I thought you might refuse at first," he said, his tone cheerful. "Very well. If you shall not attack me, perhaps you will defend yourself."

And the wizard pounced. Maude barely evaded the strike, surprised at just how adept a man of his age could be. He went in for a second blow, which again narrowly missed her; and then a third, which hit her directly in the chest, knocking the wind from her lungs. She recovered, and cast a glare in his direction.

"If you are to prove to Lord Elrond that you can accompany us on our journey, you must prove that you are capable of and are willing to fight."

The night was long, and made only longer by Gandalf's cries of "Again!" when ever she dared make an attempt to swing the stave at him. The word was to become a bane to her in both Weston and English, if this were to continue. Eventually, he did allow her to return to her guest chambers, but by then the sun had already begun to rise.

It became routine for the wizard to wake her during the late hours for further lessons in combat, and she slowly but surely began to improve. He taught her about appropriate stance, as well as basic offensive and defensive tactics, and it became easier for her to interpret the choreography of battle; everything was a dance, and both her experience with footwork and dexterity allowed her to use this to her advantage. Unfortunately, before Maude could advance to the art of wielding a sword, Rivendell's guests arrived for Elrond's council.

The process was long and arduous, and even after two weeks it seemed that debate was getting them nowhere. Maude often watched them from her window in the courtyard, waiting for one of them to have an ingenious epiphany that would allow the council to move the council along, and free some of Gandalf's time so that the swordsmanship could commence.

It was not until the second month that he spared her any time, awakening her in the early hours of the morning. He took a seat at the end of her bed and held up a rather ostentatious looking stone attached to a silver chain. When faced with the light, it reflected a myriad of colours around the room and across her eyes, mesmerising her.

"This is an Elfstone—very precious and very rare," he explained, as though he, too, were charmed by its appearance, and had forgotten that Maude could not understand his words. "It is enchanted. I give this to you, Maude, only temporarily, and so long as you wear it in my presence, you shall understand what we here in Middle-earth have to say. But alas, we will still not understand you. This is all we can hope for." He glanced at her. "At least for now."

Gandalf set the chain around her neck, and she felt a chill take her bones. She was shaken by its power, and overcame it only when Gandalf whispered gentle words in an ancient tongue.

"Allow me to make another thing clear," he said, and Maude jumped at the sound of his voice. He chuckled at her wide eyes, then told her, "You must not speak around the Men of Gondor. I would prefer it if you not speak to the dwarves, either. This is of the utmost importance. Are you listening?" He paused until she nodded her head. "Good. Also, do not stray from my side whilst they are milling about ... I can only imagine the trouble you would cause. Do you understand? You _must _be in proximity for the magic of the stone to work." He took another pause, and she nodded again. "Lovely. Oh, and you will return that charm to me once we've arrived in Lothlórien. It is simply in your possession so that you do not make a fool of us all—or worse. The Gondorians are suspicious enough as it is, and the dwarves will certainly not take too kindly to an Elf-friend from another world.

"Now, we shan't be leaving for a while yet, which should provide _me_ with enough time to speak with Lord Elrond on the matter and _you_ to further enhance your learning. In the meantime, I suppose that I'd best introduce you to the new arrivals." He stood and made to leave, but turned on his heel at the door to give her a stern look. "_Do_ remember to keep your mouth firmly closed."

* * *

**A/N**: Again, a hideously short chapter, but I have an upcoming college exam and some coursework that I need to finish. I'll still be updating regularly, just not every day.

As always, thank you to my reviewers.

**FlayAltadusa: **Thank you again! As for her joining the Fellowship, I imagine Elrond putting up quite the fight. He definitely wouldn't just allow a random female to slink in!

**Antheila**: Yay for reviews! And for the follows, which are coming along, too! I'm all for mortal, dance-inspired combat. Even more so when it's being taught by Gandalf.

**smore9**: A flicker of light at the end of the tunnel! Half a language barrier down, though with some iffy business about vicinity. I smell future problems, winkwinknudgenudge.

**Kai-Aala**: Thank goodness for that! Tap-dancing? Nice! How long have you been doing dance for? Also, thank you for pointing that out about languages!

**obsessivesyndrome**: Welcome to the story and thank you very much for your review! I'm trying to prevent this from being a repeat of all the other OC stories on this site, which is difficult considering there are so many of them!


	7. Chapter 7

Maude, having never been particularly loquacious, struggled against her own tongue when faced with the Gondorians and the dwarves in the courtyard. It was difficult for her not to reflexively answer the questions they posed out of sheer politeness and amiability. She was loath to allow herself to be presented as rude to the other guests, but under the shrewd eye of Gandalf the Grey, she had no choice but to uphold the pretence that she was a mute, and no more. On every occasion that she did open her mouth, she could almost feel the wizard's staff being driven into her solar plexus in a semblance of their training hours.

"A woman of Gondor, surely," a member of the Gondorian party had boomed. "A solid build and fierce expression! Never would you see such a look to a dainty maid of Rohan or Bree-land."

"Yes," mused Gandalf, looking far too proud of this successful development in remaining unobtrusive. "A woman of Gondor."

Meanwhile, Maude herself was dubious as to whether or not the Gondorian's words were worth being flattered or affronted by. Ballet dancers on general principle were seen to be precisely "dainty", if not in the least delicate, and it were by her own principle that she disallowed her expression to be anything other than pleasant. Of course, it was inevitable that a dancer pack some muscle and tenacity for the sake of their very career, but for it to be plain enough to be detected by a complete stranger seemed entirely ludicrous; thus Maude put the colourful description down to Gondorian pride. In any case, it seemed have been intended as complimentary.

"But what, if I may ask, would a woman of Gondor be doing here in Rivendell?" a fellow Gondorian, whom she had been led to believe to be a figure of great importance, had gone on to ask.

Maude could almost see a literal black cloud forming above Gandalf's head at the question; if it had not worried her, too, she may even have been amused.

"That business was not mine to know, Boromir," Gandalf replied, as casual as a summer breeze. "Nor is it yours."

That had been the only snag encountered during both her introduction to the men and the dwarves. The dwarves, it seemed, were far too occupied with the visiting elves to heed her much notice at all. There were many silent, glowering exchanges to be observed between them as Gandalf feigned ignorance and carried on quite merrily. Maude could only watch the wizard with a discerning eye in trepidation of his good mood. In their short acquaintanceship, she had grown accustomed to the fact that a happy wizard suggested proclivity to destruction—more specifically, her own.

No matter, Gandalf had dismissed her by noon. However, it was by unfortunate coincidence that Elrond had caught sight of the dismissal and promptly frogmarched Maude to his library, where a smiling elf awaited her behind a desk stacked high with thick, leather-bound books. Several moments later it struck her that this was to be a lesson in linguistics, when she peered at the open pages of the book nearest to her.

The old idiom of _it's all Greek to me _came to mind.

Within ten minutes of the lesson, Maude had compiled a list of problems with the elf named Calaeron's educational infrastructure. At the top of that list was his perpetual distraction with her mother tongue. In fact, Maude was certain that his questions (as interpreted by the rising cadence of his voice) had absolutely nothing to do with anything, and were simply excuses to hear her speak. This suspicion was only reinforced by the grand smile he wore when ever she humoured him.

Below that was an issue beyond fault of Calaeron himself: Gandalf's movements around Rivendell were activating the effects of the Elfstone at random intervals, meaning that the mellifluous tones of the Elvish language would abruptly change to English when Calaeron was attempting to teach her proper grammar. To his credit, he _did_ seem to pick up on her change in body language immediately thereafter the wizard wandered into proximity and halted his lesson, though he would then begin another bout of encouraging her to speak.

The eleventh time that it happened, she tried reasoning with him that she was embarrassed by the situation involving her native language, but it only gauged yet another satisfied smile from the elf before he continued about his business.

When Gandalf joined them some hours later, Maude all but leapt from her seat. By that time, her list was more of an encyclopaedia and Calaeron was looking as jovial as she had seen anyone since Kevin won artistic director of the year amongst the English companies in 2009.

"I think that it is about time you learnt the art of wielding a sword," said Gandalf, guiding her from the room as Calaeron called a polite farewell behind them.

"**Please, don't ever leave me with him again**," she implored as they crossed through the gardens. "**His fascination was mortifying**."

"Yes," replied Gandalf brightly, smiling at the sky, "a lovely day it is indeed."

Maude stared ahead, jaded.

* * *

By the late evening, after Gandalf had released her from his keeping, Maude was decorated with innumerable discolourations of the skin and at least several cuts, the most painful of which was throbbing on her shoulder. Interestingly, it had been Maude herself to inflict the wound, when she had stupidly decided to rest the blade, point up, against her left torso in a manner she intended to be casual and relaxing; and perhaps it would have been, had she had the sense to use the flat side of the blade to do so. Despite this, the pain in her shoulder was not nearly as dismaying as Gandalf's reaction to her stupidity, and that feeling of ignominy hounded her as she made her way back to her room with her head hung low.

She was ascending the steps leading to the guest quarters when someone called her name from nearby. Underneath the gazebo to her left stood Strider—or Aragorn, as she now understood—whose hand was raised in greeting. With him was a blonde elf whom she nearly dismissed as Glorfindel, before her eyes adjusted to the dusky moonlight and revealed a stranger garbed in earthy green tones. It was his presence that stirred hesitation at the apex of her chest as Aragorn beckoned her over. Already, it was too clear that Gandalf's impression of her was an ever-dwindling one, and so it seemed that the last thing she ought to do was approach a stranger whose language was incomprehensible to her in his absence.

"Maude," said Aragorn again, more firmly this time, and she felt as she had during their first few days together; so like a chagrined schoolgirl she went to him, head bowed and hands clasped before her. However, she was caught off guard by the sensation of hands tugging at the neckline of her gown, and batted them away indignantly.

"**For a man so engaged with propriety you're terribly forward**!" she admonished him, and he raised his hands with the palms facing her, looking suitably chastised. "**Honestly, if you wanted to see my shoulder, you could have simply asked**."**  
**

"It seems you have forgotten a thing or two, old friend," mused the elf. "Tact, first and foremost."

Aragorn looked uncomfortable as he pointed at the ugly bloodstain on the gown.

"Grey," was all she could tell him, recalling Pippin's attempted ministrations in teaching her several Westron words. A moment later she realised that she had just blamed the wizard on her wound, and her eyes grew wide. "**No**! _Amin_? _Amin_. **It was an accident**." She gestured to herself. "**My fault**."**  
**

"She must have begun her lessons in Sindarin," said Aragorn thoughtfully.

"Well, a single word is hardly cause for celebration." The elf regarded Maude with a flicker of amusement in his eyes. "Nor, for that matter, is a woman having managed to injure herself with her own weapon."

"Be kind, Legolas."

"I jest, Aragorn."

The Ranger went on to introduce Legolas, whose name Maude pronounced with a languid tongue, though neither made a mention of the matter out of courtesy, for amongst her physical wounds there lay a wound of pride, and they saw no reason to trouble her further. Aragorn also strived to make it clear that her infringement of Gandalf's rule would be inconsequential, as Legolas was permitted to know the details of who she was and how she came to be in Middle-earth. That at least gave her some peace of mind, and the tension from her muscles—as well as her earlier irritation at Aragorn's endless list of pseudonyms—seemed to wilt away as the conversation drew on.

The moon scaled the stars until it sat at the crown of the sky, by which time Maude had discovered a manner of gesticulations to communicate that she wished to retire to her chambers, and she was bid goodnight.

* * *

_Amin_ - I/My/Mine

* * *

**A/N**: I don't know if this is considered a long chapter or a short chapter, but it is a chapter nonetheless! So, here we have some brief introductions between Fellowship characters (do not fear a lack of Gimli, for my love for him is undying) and an attempted language lesson.

If it's any consolation, I feel terrible about the semi-hiatus and am working on the next chapter as we speak—I may even put it up tonight to compensate. I'm not sure what the problem was with this particular chapter, but I literally rewrote it a dozen times with varying plotlines and I'm still not entirely happy with it. Also, I think I got a little bit intimidated by the amount of reviews and follows this story has developed. But things should be back to regular updates, now that the muse is appeased and I know precisely where I want to go with this story.

Good feedback, bad feedback, I appreciate it all the same!

**FlayAltadusa**: Thank you! I _am _trying very hard with Gandalf because he's such a wonderful character and quite possibly my favourite across all works of fiction. Capturing his voice and persona can be tricky, but I shall fight to the very end!

**glitterballx**: Thanks a lot, lovely!

**Kai-Aala**: Do you reckon you'll go all out for a professional dance career? And I do quite like that title!

**Ninja Elf Girl**: Thank you very much! It's always a challenge to remain original when there are so many OC stories on here.

**Antheila**: Romance, romance ... I, personally, think a little bit of romance in a story is always lovely. But it is a matter of _whom_, my dear! It seems as though it would be impossible to keep everyone satisfied. Some people like a good Legomance, others a little bit of Boromance, some like a good canon-pummelling Aragoromance (I should really stop with these, but Legomance has fuelled a trend in my mind), and others like a bit of romance with non-Fellowship characters or an OCxOC twist on things. There are too many options! I will definitely be keeping people's reaction to things in mind, though. If people start shipping Maude with someone, I'd definitely be open to going for it.

**WriteWithFeeling**: Thanking you kindly, dearest! And I think she may need to make a pair. It seems that she would have all the necessary materials to do so! And thank you for the suggestion! I love them, because they really fuel my imagination. Dancing is rather magical, no?

**Alexandra**: You, my dear, have impeccable online social grace, and I thank you for that. The wonder of their reaction to it is a large part of what inspired Maude in the first place! I mean, ballet itself is a beautiful art, and it's something I think that every race of Middle-earth could appreciate. As for the communication issues, we shall just have to see ...

**N.** : Thank you very much for reviewing!

**Oxygen** **Pirate**: Firstly, I am very appreciative of your name, my good reader! And I hope I've not made you wait so long that you've lost interest.

**laurentaylor14**: Thank you!

**Simpletons**: Yes, this pleases me greatly! Do you dance with a company? If I make any mistake about your revered art, please let me know, even if it seems pedantic. I hope the story can continue to tickle your fancy!

**Cara-Ra-Ra**: Greatly appreciated, deary! I'm working hard to keep Maude as realistic as possible, flaws and all, and if she ever crosses that border into "Mary-Sue" territory, or simply becomes an unbearable character, do let me know. And alas, I too have two left feet. I can literally stumble when I'm not even moving. But yes, fighting is so choreographed that I find it difficult to believe a dancer would manage to avoid incorporating it into their technique! Every hero needs a name for the bards to sing about, don't they? It's not at all lame, my dear, and never shut up!

**Guest**: Thank you! Here it is, over two months after your review. Oh, dear ...


	8. Chapter 8

A problem was arising, Maude noticed, following her mishap with the sword. It seemed that the wound was deeper than she had previously believed, to a point where it ached to dance. An attempted port de bras ended in disaster when she felt the skin tear further along the cut, sending an intense pain skittering across the nerves of her neck and down to her elbow. She gave an audible yelp and headed toward the mirror on the opposite side of the room. However, before she could pull back the fabric of her tunic to inspect the cut, someone called to her from the doorway.

Lord Elrond stood in the corridor, properly dressed and wearing an expression which betrayed absolutely nothing about his inner thoughts. As if that were not perturbing enough, he wordlessly began guiding her through the many structures of Rivendell, until they arrived at an outdoor area where some of the other guests were breaking fast. Assured the Gandalf was nearby, he turned to speak to her.

"In an hour, I would like you to report to Calaeron for another lesson," he said quietly. When her shoulders slumped, a fire of humour danced within his eyes. "You must forgive Calaeron, Maude. He is a scholar, and every scholar is enthusiastic about their work."

What little empathy she could muster was desolated as she left Elrond's side and found herself sandwiched between a haughty group of Elves and a cantankerous party of Dwarves. She wished that she could speak to them, even if it were just to say a condescending "settle down, children"; though as tempting as Maude found the notion, there was no doubt in her mind that such words would not be well-received by either party, and so in lieu of a sharp comment in any language available to her, she sat, stewing in their enmity and tapping her fingers nervously on the table.

The feast before her, modestly labelled as a breakfast, was another temptation she had to resist. She may not have needed the sustenance, but couldn't cast aside the twitch of protest from her stomach as she ignored the delightful array of salads and pastries on their silver platters. The sweet smells that called to her were ruled only by the fear of eating what she could not digest, and so it was half-heartedly that she declined every offer that Samwise made upon noticing that she had not touched a single thing.

Merry and Pippin, it seemed, were enjoying themselves immensely. The amount of food that they consumed rivalled all Maude had ever seen from animals great and small, and she was genuinely curious as to where on earth they managed to put it all. They could not be more than four feet in height, and yet they continued to eat, scarcely stopping between each slice of bread or rounded plum, and until long after most everyone else had finished. It was then that Maude decided there would be nothing more pleasing to her than having them round for tea, even if they did eat her out of house and home.

Just as she was growing ever more fond of the young Meriadoc Brandybuck and Peregrin Took, they began conversing about her dancing none too quietly, piquing the interest of at least several individuals around the table.

"A dancer?" asked a red-haired elf from opposite her. "How intriguing!"

"Though still not enough to impress an elf, I bet," came the gruff voice of a dwarf on her right.

"On the contrary, Master Dwarf," the elf replied sternly, "we hold every form of dance in the highest esteem!"

_Not every, I'd imagine_, thought Maude, before she could stop herself. Her unanticipated moment in the proverbial gutter caused a rather painful cough to erupt in the place of what would have been a laugh, and she quickly covered her mouth as though she had just uttered the words aloud. _Inappropriate_, she chided. _Very inappropriate_.

When Elrond's hour had passed, she silently excused herself and made her way to the library. Each familiar face that she encountered along the way was pleasantly smiling, and many offered words of greeting. She could not name them all, but there were a few whom she had come to know during her stay, such as Ingiel, who regularly brought her fresh clothing, Malgelir, who took it upon herself to prepare Maude a bath every other evening, and Edendir, a younger elf who had given Maude a tour of Rivendell on an earlier day. It was strange for Maude, to have established friendships with naught but physical expression and kind gestures, yet there was something in the honesty of the relationships that warmed her heart.

By the time she had arrived at the library, Maude was in a considerably brighter mood, as well as being more willing to indulge Calaeron's scholarly ardour for the English language. She spoke to him on each occasion that the opportunity arose, and translated for him her own words in light of being provided with the Sindarin equivalent. Through this, she began writing down various English words and allow him to inspect them, which seemed to fascinate him as much as the verbalisation.

Others would wander in every so often, taking an almost equal interest as that of Calaeron in the language, and it was not until Elrond had grown suspicious of his disappearing kin and sojourned the library that their attentions were forced back to the matter at hand.

Maude had been working with Calaeron for three and a half hours when his Elven perception caught on to the fact that she was not entirely well. As she had returned one of the tomes to its shelf, she gave an audible hiss, and had dropped her arm back down to her side in an instant.

"_Mani naa ta_? _Lle anta amin tu_?"

She waved her hand at him, trying to dismiss his concern. "_Quel_."

"_Quel_," he repeated, sounding sceptical.

In order to prove her point, she raised the book to its shelf once more, only for the skin to pull and sting like a thin instrument pressed under the epidermis. Her eyes watered at the sensation, yet she continued to reach upward until Calaeron descended upon her and removed the book from her grasp. He frowned at her, then, at her expression and the way she began to clutch at her shoulder.

A long string of Elvish phrases that she could never hope to understand followed, before he took her arm and removed her from the library.

* * *

"I thank you for joining me, Mithrandir."

Lord Elrond was stood beneath an archway wreathed with leaves and their pale blooms, wearing the grim expression he reserved only for his service as harbinger of ill news. He looked out across the vale with Gandalf at his side, and watched as the winds blew down from the cliffs to stir the trees and the falls; but its whisper was callous and bore the evils of the east, a breeze deceptively gentle in its caress of the land. Soon, a darkness would follow, grasping the weak will of Men and stalking the Dwarves through their underground havens, whilst the Elves sailed west to Valinor. Perhaps it was an injustice, the punishment of mortal kind.

"Your charge is injured."

"My charge?"

"To whom else should I hold her responsible?" Elrond looked at his old friend knowingly. "Estel may have discovered her, but it was you, Mithrandir, who insisted she journey with you to Lothlórien."

"My Lord Elrond, what else would you have had me do?" asked Gandalf, watching as a goshawk dove down into the pit of the valley. When Elrond did not reply, he continued, "It was a foolish mistake, I admit. For her to be so reckless with a blade—"

"She cannot heal, Mithrandir," Elrond interrupted. "The wound is not dangerous, and there may be a temporary solution, but should this happen again and while she is away from a healer it could prove fatal."

"If it does, I shall heal her myself."

"And if she is beyond saving? If her wounds are so deep, and her blood has been shed across the earth, are you willing to be responsible for her then?"

Gandalf was silent. He stood, calculating, wondering the cause for familiarity in the edge of Elrond's voice, and the tension in his jaw. The deep frown he wore, Gandalf had seen before.

"She will perish."

For a while, Elrond did not reply. He allowed Gandalf's words to linger in the air with the call of the crows, and the rush of the falls. When he did speak, he did so with sympathy.

"Yes," he said. "The mortal woman will perish. I have seen it."

"You have seen many things, Lord Elrond, and not all have come to pass." Gandalf considered Maude for several moments, the young dancer in a foreign world. "Will it hinder our quest?"

"Perhaps not."

"Then there is still much to be hopeful for."

The wizard turned and began to walk away, his staff resonating against stone as he did. The sound echoed between ground and pillar alike, drowning the noise of the winds.

"This world will be the death of her," said Elrond, and Gandalf halted at his voice. "She will perish here, and those who hold her dear will never know."

With a heavy sigh, Gandalf continued on; and in that moment, he was unsure as to whether Elrond had spoken of the mortal woman, or his beloved daughter.

* * *

_Mani naa ta? Lle anta amin tu? _- What is it? Do you need help?  
_Quel_ - Good/Well

* * *

**A/N**: *Is casually frightened that this was entirely out of character (A small part of me thinks, yes, of course Elrond would be able to empathise, but another is sounding the alarm bells and screeching "_ELROND WOULD NOT SAY THAT IMPLICITLY OR OTHERWISE_"*

**OokamiRei-chan**: Thank you for the review! Yes, Maude is having little luck at the moment, and it's looking rather bleak. And thank you for what you've said about pairings! I think I'm just overly anxious about what the readers will like, so much so that sometimes I forget that it's my own story.

**sammythe2nd**: Thank you very much! I'm glad to hear it :)

**Antheila**: Thanks, deary! Yes, if I do decide to go with any sort or degree of romance in this story, I'd like to keep it realistic. Even if it ends up becoming an unrequited love. And thank you again for sticking around; the story isn't abandoned, but life just caught up with me and sent me into a stressed out frenzy. I'm glad that Gandalf is proving interesting thus far!

**Kai-Aala**: Ah, yes. It can be a bit of a quandary getting into a career as competitive as dance. I'm sorry about that missed opportunity, but I'm sure that it was the right decision for you at the time. You shall get you chance to shine! "Anyways" will always be a word, whether spell-checker allows for it or not. Thank you for you wonderful review!

**Graciek**: I'm glad to hear that! And Glorfindel is a wonderful choice, I certainly agree. As well as him being a splendid character, the idea of a romance with a non-Fellowship character has always been more appealing to me, because you don't need to worry quite so much about destroying canon!


	9. Chapter 9

Gimli the Dwarf was a colourful character, as Maude discovered one morning on a pleasant stroll around Rivendell. She had encountered him by a fountain, thickly bearded and heavily clad in layers she thought to be impractical, as though he expected to be fighting a war in the House of Elrond; which may not have been too great a stretch of the imagination, given the hostility between his kin and the visiting Elves of Mirkwood. Irrespective of that animosity, he greeted her warmly when she approached, and introduced himself with a low bow from the waist.

With Gandalf only a short way away, he was able to regale her with tales and Dwarven culture whilst holding her undivided attention. He told her of his home, the Lonely Mountain, which had been razed by a dragon some decades ago, and how his father had been member to the party that had reclaimed it—alongside Bilbo Baggins, no less; then of how this had impacted his decision to aid the Fellowship on their forthcoming quest, as well as a few disdainful mutterings of Wood-Elves (which Maude believed to have been a subtle jibe at Legolas). In spite of this, he spoke proudly of Lord Elrond and what a munificent host he had been, followed by another small jibe at the Wood-Elves about honour.

Maude was quite nearly baffled by the caprice of his feelings, yet amused all the same, and found herself developing a certain fondness for Dwarves as the conversation drew on. She became enamoured by the thought of Erebor as he described it, and spent a great deal of time admiring the fine Dwarven craftsmanship that his axe displayed.

Her genuine interest in his weaponry attracted the attention of the other guests from the Lonely Mountain, who further began explaining and demonstrating the craft, as well as the Dwarven penchant for precious stones and metals.

This exhibition may have continued for much longer had her company not been called away on a matter of business, and she found herself alone by the fountain, listening to the placid sounds of water rushing against water. Sighing, she traced her finger across the warm surface, and watched the ripples flow in labyrinthine patterns around the marble pool.

"Are you well, Lady Maude?"

The stealth of Glorfindel's appearance startled Maude out of her action, so that her hand snatched back at a pace which sprayed her face with droplets from the fountain. She closed her eyes, partly to avoid the discomfort of unsought water in her cornea and partly out of sheer embarrassment, and allowed her hands to fall down to her lap in defeat. When she did open them again, Glorfindel was barely smiling yet visibly amused, and she gave a small nod to answer his question.

"Your shoulder?"

She nodded again, then gave it a pat for good measure. Though her arm was still not quite as mobile as she would have liked, the healer's treatment had worked wonders, and she had been assured that a full recovery in the next couple of days was indubitable.

"I am gladdened to see you in good health," he said kindly. "I have not had the chance to speak with you since the unfortunate incident at the Ford. Although, I was rather hoping that you would be able to speak with me, also."

"_Amin … quen_," she replied, but the words sounded ridiculous falling from her own mouth. _Here I am, slaughtering this poor elf's mother tongue_, she thought, beginning to fidget.

Glorfindel merely continued to watch her, the humour still alight in his eyes, then after a brief silence he said, "We are all intrigued to know more of this world from which you departed;" he extended a hand toward her, and helped her to her feet when she took it; "and when you have lived for as long as I, Lady Maude, that intrigue becomes a significant priority. I have seen many things, yet not once have I happened upon another world, nor any sign of one."

Maude glanced at his youthful face and began to walk alongside him. It was known to her, by that point, that Elves lived for a very long time, though precisely how long she could not fathom. They all seemed to carry the wisdom of an age—or several—with their bearings, but she had to admit that Glorfindel's presence surpassed many. His physicality was compelling, and one evening she had heard Frodo tell Sam of how he had frightened the Black Riders, how he had shone like terrifying beacon of white light as a flood swept them downstream; and so she was disappointed that she had been unable to match his pace during the pursuit of the Ringwraiths.

"Is it true that you are a dancer?" he asked suddenly, pulling her from her thoughts.

Despite that she would have liked to tell him otherwise, she felt obligated to reply truthfully, and gave a nod so slight and hasty that if it were not for his Elven perception he might not have noticed.

"Have I embarrassed you, my lady?" He cast his eyes in her direction, and held his hands behind his back. "There is no shame in it. Adept as we are at war, we much prefer the leisures of peace. There are few who would respect you more for it than we here in Imladris."

Maude absently wondered what an elf would imagine the dancing of her world to be like. Mechanical, or boorish? A series of messy, indistinct movements forced from an uncoordinated body, propelling themselves around a space in the crude manner of an addled drunk? Ballet was no such thing, but she had seen his kind in all of their grace and beauty, and had to question how it would compare. If an elf were to replicate the choreography of mortal men, its creators would appear nothing short of maladroit by relation; and to have one of their greatest accomplishments overshadowed by imitation was a notion devastating to Maude.

"You seem troubled," said Glorfindel, gleaning her diverted attention for a second time. "It is a dangerous thing, to remain silent when one's thoughts grow dark and doleful. To allow that darkness to fester within is to allow it to consume you entirely, and there have been many great children of Men to fall by virtue of it."

_Let's not get carried away now, Aesop_, said a pointed voice in her mind, even if similar philosophies did exist within the parameters of her own world. It was what counsellors and therapists enjoyed discussing, the blackening of the mortal mind through suppression of their feelings. Although, Maude couldn't see how this applied to her, as in spite of those things which worried her, they were hardly all-consuming. She was not fraught with anxiety or sadness, undeterred by the horrors that Middle-earth surely had in store, and every niggling thought which crept into her mind ebbed away from it in a matter of seconds. Perhaps it were no more than the elf at her side and his emanant aura of calm—he had interrupted her intrinsic distress three times in the last few minutes alone, after all.

"Tell me of your homeland," he prompted, coaxing the number to four.

"_Rangwa_?" came her reply, shadowed by a frown of confusion.

"No," he told her, shaking his head. "But why must a lack of understanding mean that I should not hear it?"

And so Maude did tell him.

It was not until the one-sided conversation had ended and she had returned to her room that she realised how right Glorfindel had been. Simply relaying the information she hadn't had the opportunity to speak of since arriving in Middle-earth had relieved an enormous burden; each sentence was another stone from her shoulders, until there was naught but abundant elation left.

Those shoulders no longer inhibited her dance.

She danced throughout the entire afternoon, eventually joined by the hobbits, who taught her the dances of the Shire-folk, all spinning and footwork. They invited her out to the gardens as dusk began to fall, where they danced some more and caught the interest of passers-by; and soon they found themselves coalescing with a group of Gondorians who had been enjoying the Elven wine, as well as a few familiars, such as Ingiel and the red-headed elf who had argued with the dwarf at breakfast the day before.

It was that evening when Maude also decided to commission the help of Ingiel to create a pair of pointe shoes, believing that there would be none better than an elf to do so. Ingiel could not fully comprehend the request, but under Maude's careful instruction collected the materials and aided the composition of the shoes. The end result was a pair so carefully and beautifully crafted that Maude was incapable of doing anything other than gape at them, whilst the bemused Ingiel wondered why on earth a dancer would be required to wear such a queer manner of shoe.

The fabric of the shoe was neither satin nor silk, yet more magnificent than either could ever hope to be. In the moonlight that shone through the window, it almost seemed glimmer like a rose candle flame. Beneath it was a box formed by a strange substance that Maude had not seen before, sturdy but not uncomfortable. The same could be said of the shank, which left her with a feeling of optimism that the shoes could endure both a soft and onerous style of dance. Ingiel had lastly secured the ribbons, again under Maude's direction of where the appropriate place to attach them would be in context of her own feet.

When Ingiel had left her alone that night, Maude danced as though the world was ending; and in a way, it was, for she would soon be travelling across this perilous realm without the land or time for practice. Out on the balcony, in the hold of the breeze, her pirouettes and grand allegros were as clean as they had ever been. Rivendell nurtured her talent, and she could feel the pleasant pressure of the place building within her, collapsing the intangible barrier between Middle-earth and planet Earth, and for a moment there was only one world—a world which she was proud and positively jubilant to be a part of.

This beatific energy carried her to a sweet sleep at the zenith of night, in which she dreamt of swans on a lake, singing as she danced her boat across the water.

* * *

_Amin ... quen _- I ... speak  
_Rangwa_? - Understand?

* * *

**A/N**: I'm beginning to get frustrated with my capitalisation of Elves/Dwarves/Hobbits/Men. It seems grammatically correct to only capitalise when you're discussing the race as a whole, but I'm easily thrown off and the more I re-read what I've written, the more my mind becomes likened to an internal key smash.

One thing I'd like to say about Gimli is that I want him to have a fair amount of book!verse and film!verse in his character, because he was terribly entertaining in the films but there didn't seem to be enough emphasis on how noble and great a fighter that he was. I don't want him to be reduced to the comic relief of this story, as he's so much more than that.

**WriteWithFeeling**: Thank you so much for your review! I'm happy that you like Maude, because I'm enjoying writing her character! Hopefully, there'll be much more character development both before and after she leaves Rivendell.

**Fan Fictional Authoress**: You have no idea how grateful I am that you've reminded me about the Elvish translations—there was something _bothering _me for the longest time and I couldn't put my finger on what, but it was that! Each chapter now has its translations at the bottom. I'm also quite glad that Glorfindel is proving to be a somewhat popular choice, because I think I've subconsciously been gearing towards him; I thought it was very odd that I took the time to describe him and the effect that his presence had on Maude, but didn't with the other characters. Thank you again for your review!


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